


Tadfield Heat

by Shampain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A Very Long Meet Cute, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, F/M, Good Omens Big Bang, M/M, Other, References to too many things, a wee bit of PTSD, genre typical swearing and violence, involving terrorists, no one can outrun Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: The scene is Tadfield, at the beginning of another perfect autumn. The cast? Two surly detectives, one MI-5 analyst, and a trigger happy CIA agent. The problem? Sergeant A. Michael won't shut up about the graffiti the village just can't seem to get rid of.If you're looking for intelligent people doing intelligent things, maybe don't click here. For the Good Omens Big Bang!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends and welcome to the madness. All I can say is that I watch too many action movies and comedies, and no, none of this is really meant to be taken seriously. The quotes don't even make sense, I just really like _Hot Fuzz_ , ok.  
> I wrote this for the Good Omens Big Bang, WAHOO~
> 
> Some superbly adorable art was done for me by (my fellow Hot Fuzz fan) [wyvernquill](https://wyvernquill.tumblr.com/)! They drew me not just a title page but also a lovely scene in the bookshop between Crowley and Aziraphale. Y'all can [look at it here!](https://vodkertonic.tumblr.com/post/190417606744/title-tadfield-heat-word-count-15964-archive)
> 
> Secondly, I also have an absolutely wonderful beta, Iris. She's the reason this schlock is even readable, and gave me some great feedback   
> (impressive, since I waited to the ABSOLUTE LAST MINUTE to write this). Iris is also the one who picked Ezra as Aziraphale's more human-sounding name, as well as his code name. I've never really used a beta reader before, but I'm assuming I now owe her my soul.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want to be a big cop in a small town? Fuck off up the model village!" _Hot Fuzz_

The annoying thing about Tadfield, Crowley decided, was the fact that everything was always perfect. London had its share of inconveniences, from delayed trains to sudden thunderstorms, which was the price of living in a city with so many things to offer. Tadfield, on the other hand, was a typical English village, only it was a bit too typical. The gardens here were lovely, the church was very church-y, and the best way to get from one end of the village to the other was to drive, or cycle, or walk, as there was no other means of transportation to speak of. Since his Bentley was firmly ensconced in a garage until he got on top of his credit again, Crowley was forced to walk through the village and be greeted by cheery villagers who were all morning people while he, himself, was not.

“Morning, detective!” were the endless chirps, even though Crowley had been in Tadfield for about a year now – six months less than Belle Prince, technically his superior but more often than not his solid partner in a sea of countryside madness – and everyone knew that he hated being spoken to before noon.

In fact, the only two people Crowley could stomach being spoken to by in the morning were Belle and her neighbour, Madame Tracy – well, Tracy so long as Belle was there to soften the woman’s… Madame-ness. When Crowley had first come to Tadfield he had been in absolutely stitches when he saw her, because he had run into her way back when he was a PC and she was a ‘lady of the night’ innocently plying her trade and causing so few problems no one in the service really felt like doing anything about her. Of course, now that she was a Fixture, as it were, Crowley found her grating unless Belle was there to soften the blow.

Luckily, she usually was. Belle lived halfway between Crowley’s and the station, so she was usually out front having her first cigarette of the day, waiting for him, which was when Madame Tracy swooped. The fact that she wore a random collection of scarves, dressing gowns and slippers even at such an early hour contributed to said swooping effect.

When he turned the corner there they were, on either side of the front gate, looking completely out of place as far as neighbours went. Madame Tracy still applied her makeup the same way she did thirty (Crowley guessed) years ago, and she must wake up at the crack of dawn in order to do it – or, more likely, Madame Tracy slept during the day, and had all night to prepare for her mornings. Belle, on the other hand, was androgynous as ever, her former Joan Jett style mullet having been finally converted into a cropped hairstyle at Crowley’s insistence. She and Crowley were colloquially referred to as ‘the demons’, partly for their bad attitude, but also for the fact they tended to shop in the same menswear stores (for shirts and waistcoats and jackets) and women’s departments (for skinny pants).

“Halloooo, detective,” Tracy trilled. She seemed very caffeinated; you could tell what kind of Tracy you were going to get based on whether she was clutching a mug of tea or coffee. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Crowley caught the whiff of dark roast as he approached.

“Good morning,” Crowley said, unwillingly. He already felt the itch for a cigarette, but he’d already smoked his first one of the morning and he tried not to smoke more than one before he got to the station.

“We’d best be off,” Belle said, turning away. They began down the lane together. Belle handed him her cigarette and he took a grateful drag.

“What was she going on about today?” he asked, having noted the vaguely irritated look Belle had been wearing.

“Nothing important,” she said.

There was an American in Tadfield. Well, a new American, as the village’s proximity to the airbase meant that soldiers, bureaucrats, and all other types tended to come through in one way or another, either on rotation or simply popping up in the village pubs. “We’ll be hip-deep in the bloody fools before long,” R.P. Tyler had groused, to everyone and no one in particular, appearing to miss the fact he did, indeed, live right by a military operations base. “That’s all we need, Tadfield becoming the next holiday destination for these types.”

Since it was the beginning of autumn, the leaves were beginning to turn lovely shades of gold and red but the sun was still bright and hot, like summer. Madame Tracy had seen the American out jogging. That, apparently, was enough to set him apart from all the rest – except for maybe Miss Anathema Device, who had rented out a cottage at the beginning of summer and could often be seen wandering through the forest, appearing to talk to the trees. “He is _quite_ impressive-looking,” Tracy had said, leaning against her front gate in her lurid dressing gown. She often stood there enjoying her morning brew when Belle passed her by in the morning on her way to the station, and that Tuesday morning was no different.

“Oh, yes?” Belle asked, literally anything but interested, but she wasn’t feeling a particular need to be punctual that morning. Detective Sergeant A. Michael had been riding her about a case of graffiti in the village that Belle really, honestly did not care about. Her job was solving crimes, not hauling in Adam Young or his gang and wagging her finger at them.

Madame Tracey nodded, picking up her big flowery mug of coffee and taking a sip. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’d say mid-forties, maybe a bit older? Just the right age for you, actually,” and she had actually _winked_.

“Noted,” Belle said dryly.

Everyone knew Madame Tracy was a former prostitute; not because it was a hot, burning secret, but because Tracy herself had absolutely no compunction against talking about it. “We all need to make a living somehow, don’t we,” she’d said. There was a file on her former activities up in London, though to her credit Tracy had never been involved in anything more underhanded than once having a client who was committing company fraud and she had been asked to give a statement. Anthony Crowley – Belle’s Detective Sergeant – had had to excuse himself to the toilets to laugh himself silly when he’d come across her in Tadfield, having been a PC in London at the time and working, well, in the same area she did.

“I’m only saying,” Madame Tracy said, smiling; she had a way of talking that made it hard for Belle to get mad at her, unlike when anyone else tried to give her unsolicited life advice. “He’s easy on the eyes.”

Since Madame Tracy liked to wear her dressing gown open while in her lacy underthings and go ‘yoohoo!’ in greeting to the grumpy ex-sergeant Shadwell, who lived across the street, Belle wasn’t sure the older woman could be trusted in her opinion on attractiveness. But Belle liked her enough not to say anything in that regard.

“Ah, there’s Crowley,” she said, relieved, watching the tall, wavering figure of her partner approach.

“Alright?” he mumbled around her cigarette (he refused to give it back), as they made their way to the station. The morning was beautiful with a light breeze; Belle, who ran hot, appreciated the soft gust lifting her fringe off her forehead. Another day at the station, pissing about in their office, ignoring Michael. No more talk of Americans occurred.

The next morning, over coffee, their shared office was invaded by Michael, immaculate in her sergeant's uniform. She hadn't even given them twenty minutes before she was in there, making demands. Quite bravely, Belle thought.

“This graffiti is getting out of hand,” Michael said.

Belle was leaning back in her chair, feet up on the desk. On the other side, Crowley was also leaning into his chair, but with his limbs sprawled everywhere, an unlit cigarette dangling out of his mouth. They were going to quit smoking tomorrow, they’d decided, so it was important that they smoke everything they had today.

“Michael,” Belle said. “It’s graffiti. It happens. There’s kids in the village, they get bored.”

“Where are they getting the spray paint?” Michael demanded. “That way we can figure out their patterns and movements...”

“You want us to investigate where to buy spray paint?” Crowley asked. “You can google that, Michael. It’s very simple.”

“That’s not my job!”

“Well stop telling us how to do our jobs, and fuck off maybe,” Belle said. She didn’t remember how she’d managed to survive the six months in the station before Crowley came along. Even though he had royally pissed her off, he had been invaluable in solving what was, then, a gruesome murder and kidnapping. Unfortunately, after that, Tadfield went back to its sleepy state, leaving the pair of them to rot in their office, get harassed by Michael, and bond.

“We all know it’s probably Adam Young and his gang of merry mascots,” Crowley said. “Just go give his parents a talking to.”

“We need proof!”

“Do we?” Crowley asked, mysteriously.

Michael left in a huff, leaving behind her the scent of coffee and Yardley lavender soap.

The two detectives sat in silence for a moment.

“Pub tonight?” Belle asked.

“Yeah.”

.

He would never tell her, but he held Belle Prince on something of a pedestal. He'd heard of her work in Liverpool, if only for the infamy some of her cases had brought her, though she was almost never on television, preferring to let her superiors handle press conferences. The only reason he'd accepted the promotion and transfer to Tadfield was because he would technically be working for her, but he'd never told her that. Belle Prince did not respond well to “bootlickers”.

After the pub, Crowley had to get Belle back into her house. To think, he had taken the position at Tadfield because he had been excited (yes, _excited_ ) at the prospect of working with Prince, and now he was getting drunk off his ass with her. It wasn't as good as solving mind-blowing crimes, but it was a victory nonetheless.

Like many old English houses, the staircase up to the second floor was a death trap. He stood in the front door and watched the woman who was technically his boss crawl up them, making it almost to the top before appearing to just go to sleep on the steps.

“I’ll lock up then, eh?” Crowley said.

Outside he breathed in the fresh, revitalizing air of the countryside, and thought about having a cigarette, only to remind himself he had smoked the last one an hour ago and he and Belle were quitting. He sighed, then began his weaving walk home. He took a route a bit out of his way so that he could wander through the high street, passing by the used bookshop, its windows dark and the sign in the front turned around to CLOSED. He could see a light on upstairs as he went by, though, and it comforted him.

The next day there was a nicotine patch on Belle’s forehead.

“Right,” she said, sipping her coffee and looking about as queasy as Crowley himself felt, and it wasn’t just because of the pub the night before. Why did they always think quitting smoking was a good idea? Personally, he’d rather die of lung cancer than suffer this way, but solidarity between them was important. And if Crowley sometimes wanted to impress her, well, there was that too. “There was a break-in at the bookshop down on Rose Lane. The owner didn’t seem to want anyone over there, but Michael says it bears investigating.”

“She does know we are accomplished detectives who solve murders, uncover smuggling rings, and bust drug dealers, right?” Crowley asked, ignoring the tightness in his stomach the moment he realized they were talking about Ezra Fell, the fussy, effeminate owner of the town’s used bookshop. Ezra was rosy-cheeked and blonde, and he dressed a bit like he couldn’t figure out what century it was, but he made it look damn good. Which was to say, Crowley had wanted to pin the other man against the nearest flat surface and kiss him senseless about twenty minutes after first meeting him, but couldn’t figure out how to communicate that in a way that didn’t end with Crowley being forced to move back to London out of embarrassment.

“As your boss, I'll remind you that this is our job,” Belle said. “As much as I want to throw something at Michael's head. Anyway, we may as well go. The longer we stew in this office, the more I want to smoke.”

Crowley shrugged his shoulders. “Fine,” he said, as if he wasn’t looking forward to it. He thought about reminding his boss that there was a patch on her forehead, but figured it would be funnier to see if she remembered or not.

The first time Crowley had bumped into Ezra, it had been shortly after solving the murder case that he had been transferred in for. Ezra was a newcomer as well, taking over the shop from the previous owner, an old woman who had decided to retire and tend to her garden and grandchildren. They had stopped for a friendly chat out on the sidewalk as Crowley was on his way to the station, Ezra standing there with his keys in his hand, and Crowley self-conscious about the fact he hadn’t bothered to style his hair that morning, because who was he trying to impress? He’d been unceremoniously dumped before he left London, and to say that Crowley was drowning in self-pity and convinced he was going to die alone would have been an understatement.

Ezra had smiled like some sexy, grown-up Cupid, and Crowley – who liked to think himself above romantic love and all its other bullshit – had felt like the storm clouds had parted and the sun was shining through.

“So do you like books?” Ezra had asked, after the first few minutes of smalltalk.

“Oh, no,” Crowley had said, frankly. “I don’t read books.”

So, yeah, he probably was going to die alone, he'd reflected, as Ezra had politely excused himself and gone into the shop. But at least he now had something nice to look at.

“Detective Inspector, Detective Sergeant,” Ezra greeted them, politely, as they came in through the door. He had a look on his face that Crowley recognized was a smile pasted over an annoyed expression, but he’d bothered to use their actual titles instead of just the plural ‘detectives’, which took an effort, at least.

But what really distracted Crowley, though, was the fact there was someone else in the shop, as whenever Crowley usually went in to say hello (he had recovered from his fuck up that first day, and he and Ezra were more or less pleasant acquaintances now) there was nobody around. Mostly because Ezra was the worst bookstore owner to ever live, and also because it was a secondhand bookshop and who really wanted old books when you could buy nice, shiny new ones, anyway?

This person was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked like he could easily get paid to be good-looking – but he wasn’t a model, because there was always something funny-looking about fashion models in person, and this man was the very definition of handsome. He was leaning one elbow against the counter, apparently having been in deep discussion with Ezra before the bell above the door chimed.

Crowley’s boss had removed the nicotine patch from her forehead, thankfully, though it was now on her arm, underneath her sleeve (as was Crowley’s, who had slapped one on the minute he had a chance). She now looked more or less in charge, regardless of the fact everyone else seemed to tower over her. “Right,” she said, nodding to their surroundings. “Better clear up shop, Mr. Fell.”

“Really, this is rather unnecessary,” Ezra said, in a protesting sort of way, though with the knowledge he had absolutely no chance of shifting the detectives now that they had been dispatched. He was probably speaking as someone who knew cops, but likely not someone who knew that Belle Prince never took no for an answer.

“Oh, it's fine, I was just leaving,” the customer said. American. He was out of there before Crowley could spare another thought for him. Which was fine; he wanted all of his thoughts for Ezra.

Nothing had been stolen, as it turned out. Ezra's collection of dusty books was untouched. The safe had been popped open, but the money from the previous evening was still there, according to Ezra. That was the one red flag that explained the bookstore owner's reticence – who opened a safe and left money behind? Someone who found or was looking for something more valuable. If this was a movie, Crowley would have suspected something dangerous. But this was Tadfield, and all signs pointed to a soured relationship.

“Definitely an ex,” Belle agreed when Crowley posited the theory. “Wonder what they took? Pictures? Letters?”

“Nothing he wants us to see, that's for sure,” Crowley said. He felt bad for inconveniencing the man, but he'd been able to tease a smile out of him as they were leaving, and that was something.

Belle tapped her lips thoughtfully with the tips of her fingers, as if she were smoking a cigarette. He thought for a moment she might make a remark, and he waited, patiently. He always liked having Ezra as the topic of conversation, rare as it was. His mind was already churning with possibilities, after all. What kind of people did Ezra date?

But instead she said, “Shall we check out that graffiti, then?”

Crowley nodded. “May as well,” he said, starting the car. At the very least, it would shut Michael up for a bit.

.

Crowley had caved after five days. Belle made it to the middle of the next week before she found herself buying a pack of cigarettes on autopilot at the shop and lighting up. The real reason she smoked was not addiction, but boredom – she coped with withdrawal, but could not fill up the hours of her days properly without it. _I should probably bring that up to my psychiatrist_ , she mused to herself, though she hadn't seen said psychiatrist in six months. It was easier to dodge appointments when the doctor was in London.

She still wasn’t used to having her weekends off. True, she would work endlessly if a case called for it, but Tadfield was a sleepy village amongst many other sleepy villages, and for the most part the station only ever had a skeleton crew on the weekends, with a rotation of officers on call should anything disastrous arise.

But despite over a year of a steady scheduling and free Sundays, Belle couldn’t get to sleep at a regular time. It was sometimes bad dreams; other times a paranoia that kept her eyes wide open, sitting at her bedroom window in the dark, watching the shadows on the street outside. Sometimes she just couldn’t stop thinking. She almost missed the night shift from the days when she was a PC, let alone a detective.

She had to wonder if Crowley had similar difficulties, having worked in London for the entirety of his career (Belle, on the other hand, had bounced around the country; Liverpool, at seven years, had been her longest stint in any one place.) They didn’t talk about that sort of thing, though. They were still at the part of their relationship where they kept one another’s secrets, but did not share them wilfully; they were hoarded like tarnished gems, hidden from each other’s sight. She knew why, too: they could not afford to lose their respect for each other. If they did, they were damned.

Belle sat on the front steps of her house, lighting up a cigarette. An empty pot full of gravel and discarded butts was at her right; a can of lager was at her left. She was careful to be firmly ensconced against the front door, so that she was only visible to anyone walking down the street directly in front of her. The lights were on next door, and she didn’t want to be seen by her neighbour. Prostitutes and cops both had a tendency to work the night shift, after all, and unlike Belle, Tracy had no intention in keeping herself to a daytime schedule.

Still, it was half past three in the morning, so she felt relatively secure that she could smoke in peace. In the distance she could pick up some whooping that was definitely some teenagers joy-riding past the village. She took a deep breath of evening air, which was sweet with the flowers from her neighbours’ gardens (Belle, herself, had not managed to plant anything since moving in) and held only the faintest edge of dewy chill. She lived in paradise, and still she could not embrace it. Her mind was full to the brim with crooks and drugs and gunshots.

She leaned her shoulders back against the door and closed her eyes. The faraway yelling drifted off into silence. She should have gone to the pub with the rest of them, she thought, not for the first time that night. She’d have been able to go to sleep hours ago if she was drunk.

“Morning, dear!”

Belle blinked herself into wakefulness. She had not fallen asleep outside – not quite. She was in her sitting room, but the door was wide open, and Madame Tracy was peering in with a gigantic, far-too-amused grin on her face.

Ah, shit.

“Yes, morning,” Belle said, levering herself up off of the couch. Her eyes burned from exhaustion. It must have been right before sunrise when she passed out; she remembered it still being night when she had gone inside to make a cup of tea (which she saw now, cold and untouched, on the coffee table). She had just sat on the couch and lost consciousness, apparently.

“Bit unsafe to leave your door open, even in these parts,” Tracy teased.

“Yes, retired madames might wander in,” Belle said. She got to her feet, stretching – and that’s when she noticed, through the front windows, the American at her front gate. She almost toppled over from surprise but instead darted, gracefully, out of sight. Which meant closer to Madame Tracy and the door, unfortunately.

Before she could say anything, though, Tracy turned on her heel and walked back outside. “All good, like I said,” she called to him. Belle grabbed a baggy hoodie hanging by the door, dragging it on to disguise the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra, and followed her neighbour out.

“How nice to see our new addition to the village is a concerned citizen,” Tracy cooed, though Belle noticed her voice lacked the sexual, black-widow-esque bite it had when she was talking to men she was interested in. Which was surprising, when looking at him outside in broad daylight. He’d been attractive enough in the bookstore, enough so that Belle had barely risked more than a glance at him or risk staring. “He saw your door wide open, Detective Prince.”

“Didn’t want to come in yourself, eh?” Belle asked, running her fingers through her hair, hoping it wasn’t standing up in the back too much – which had nothing to do with trying to look attractive, which she had generally given up on, and everything to do with not looking like the village idiot.

“Well, I saw Madame Tracy was up, and I had already made her acquaintance,” he said. “I’m a rude American, but not at the expense of getting shot. Cops also have guns here, right?”

“How did you know I was a cop?” Belle asked. He hadn't seemed to recognize her when she first came outside, though she was noting a bit of familiarity in his gaze now.

“Oh, I've been telling him about you,” Madame Tracy said, in an offhand way that was very alarming. Tracy better not have been playing matchmaker.

“All terrible things,” Gabriel told her, reassuringly, with a straight face.

Belle fought down the urge to let her mouth twist into a smile. She had just woken up, she was exhausted and grumpy, and she felt a headache coming on from not drinking enough water, as per usual. She was not going to give a man the satisfaction of making her smile, not until he’d earned it. “Good,” Belle said. “They're all true.”

“Ooh, you’re a mean one, Miss Belle,” Tracy laughed. “I hope you’ll be in a better mood by tomorrow. You’ll still be coming by, I hope?”

Generally Belle loved being single with a lacklustre social life, because if there was one thing she hated it was putting on a show for someone. But the worst part of that was, if you had a neighbour like Madame Tracy, there was a standing invitation for Sunday lunch every week. Normally Belle claimed she had to work, or sometimes she was pulled in to volunteer at some village event, but every now and then she had to take the invite so as not to hurt Tracy’s feelings – something Belle genuinely didn’t want to do, as nosey and infuriating as her neighbour could be.

The last time she’d had Sunday lunch at Tracy’s, she had brought Crowley by her hostess’ request; they’d barely made it ten minutes into the meal before Shadwell (of course he was there, he was always there on Sundays) and Crowley were out in the backyard yelling at each other. It was a shame; Belle had hoped she’d be able to rely on her partner to create some buffer between everyone. Apparently not. (Anathema Device, brand new to the village, had also been there; so things weren’t just awkward, they were downright weird that day).

“Busy, I'm afraid,” Belle said. To take the sting off, though, she added, “Next week?”

“Next week,” Tracy said, smiling. “Oh! Where are my manners? This is Gabriel Clarion. This is my infamous neighbour, Belle Prince. Belle, Gabriel's here working at the airbase. Isn't that right?”

If there was one thing that Belle did not do, it was smalltalk. Luckily, there seemed to be an air of moving-along that had everyone getting on with their day. Relieved, with Gabriel bidding a goodbye and Tracy heading back inside, Belle dug in her sweater pocket for her cigarettes and lit one up, thinking about whether going to bed would be worth it or if she should just give up and make something for breakfast, and try not to think too much about Clarion's eyes, which were a stunning shade of blue that almost merged into purple.

On Tuesday, a new piece of graffiti had popped up. It was the first bit of new paint since they had finally given in to Michael’s demands to look into it, and though she hated to admit it, it appeared the sergeant had been right to be suspicious of it. Though, perhaps, not in the way Michael liked to think.

Belle folded her arms over her middle and gazed at it, frowning, while Crowley was still trying to narrow down a time when it could have appeared from the building’s owner.

The small shop, which sold the usual collection of sweets, crisps, phone cards and cheap but overpriced wine, had discovered the tag early that morning when they were opening. It was a sword surrounded by zig-zagging flames. Part of it bothered Belle; it lacked the flourish and touch of proper graffiti. A real graffiti artist had a confidence and swoop to their tag, but this just looked… complicated.

“Are we able to narrow it down?” she asked, as Crowley loped up.

“Looks like sometime between two and five this morning,” he said.

“Seems unlikely for a bunch of schoolkids,” she remarked.

“Agreed. But I think it’s about time we went over and had a chat with the Them. When are they out of school?”

There were four members of Tadfield’s notorious (by small village standards) gang of unruly fourteen-year-olds. Belle was actually quite fond of then insomuch as a detective could be, and she knew for a fact Crowley let them get away with all sorts of things when he came across them off duty (though there had been an occasion where they had been caught tossing eggs at passing cars from behind a garden wall. Crowley made them clean every single car that had been victimized with nothing but rags and a bucket).

They were kids, not felons, but they both decided to visit each child based on who was most likely to respond to (firm but friendly) interrogation, and went from there. Poor Wensleydale was first, followed by Brian. Pepper was their third visit, which took longer than the first two since Pepper’s mother liked to ramble about feminism to Tadfield’s two worldly detectives, in between telling them that the police were an inherently flawed institution.

All three claimed to know nothing about it, and Belle was inclined to believe them, but that didn’t mean they were without guilt. Finally it was time to speak to Adam, the ringleader. To say that Adam’s parents knew half of the local police service by name was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg in which their son liked to cause trouble.

“Detective Crowley,” Mrs. Young greeted, with a sigh, as she opened the door. “Ah. And Detective Prince. Hello.”

“Morning, Deirdre,” Crowley said. “Could we have a chat with Adam, d’you think?”

“Good thing Arthur’s not home yet,” she said, stepping aside to let them in, before turning her head to call into the depths of the house. “Adam!”

Adam Young, the golden-haired demon himself, was all innocence as he sat down at the kitchen table with Belle and Crowley, while his mother hovered conspicuously in the background making tea.

“Right, Adam, we just wanted to have a chat,” Crowley said.

“Is this about the graffiti?” he asked.

“Adam!” Deirdre looked shocked, but Adam just fished his phone out of his hoodie and held it up. His mother immediately relaxed.

“Ah, yes,” Crowley said. “Your companions texted warnings.”

“Brian is frightened of you,” Adam said, seriously, to Belle. Crowley shot her a ‘don’t look so pleased with yourself’ look, so she must have cracked a smile without realizing it. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because I haven’t done any graffiti for ages now. Just messes up the look of the village, see.”

“Not for ages?” Belle raised an eyebrow.

Adam had the good grace to look abashed. “Well,” he said, “It was about… the artistic freedom, see…”

Shaking her head, Deirdre set down tea in front of Crowley and Belle. “And we had him scrub it all off, didn’t we,” she said, sternly. Adam nodded.

Belle tapped the end of her pen against the kitchen table. “Well, Adam,” she said. “We were hoping you might be able to help us out.”

“I don’t really know anything.”

“Now, that’s not true,” Crowley said. “You know loads about what happens in this town. We were hoping you might be able to give us a hand.”

Adam blinked. “Really?” he asked.

“Really.”

.

It was about time to clock off, but Belle and Crowley sat in their car at the station, mulling everything over. “Do you think we can break it all down?” he asked. “Figure out who’s been doing this? Now that we know it’s not Adam, I’m kind of pissed off about it, actually.”

“Same,” Belle said, frowning into the distance. Then her eyebrows perked up. “Is that Ezra Fell?” she asked.

Crowley’s gaze snapped over and, sure enough, there was the man himself. He felt an immediate reaction to his unexpected presence: a blush creeping up his neck. Being a redhead was the worst.

“Go talk to him before he passes by,” she hissed.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she stated.

Belle leaned over him and jerked on the handle of the car door. “What are you doing?” he asked, before she unceremoniously pushed him out. She was distressingly strong for someone so much smaller than he was, he thought, chagrined, struggling to stay upright instead of toppling right out of the driver’s seat.

“That’s what you get for not putting your seat belt on,” she said, just before Ezra was in hearing distance.

“Hello, Anthony,” he said, pleasantly. He only looked vaguely confused as to why Crowley was getting out of his car at somewhat of a horizontal angle. “What are you doing?”

“Uh,” Crowley said. _He'd called him Anthony._ “Tripped.”

“I see,” Ezra said.

After a moment Crowley's brain kicked in and he began to get to his feet, instead of continuing the conversation with Ezra staring down at him in concern. “How's the shop?” he asked, attempting to subtly dust his thigh off.

“Oh, you know, fine,” Ezra said.

Crowley wasn't sure if he was relieved or embarrassed when he heard Belle getting out of the car. “Mr Fell,” she greeted. “I was hoping to run into you.”

“You were?”

“We could use a third at trivia night tonight,” Belle said. Crowley's head snapped around to stare at her in surprise. She had her elbows on the car, keys dangling from one hand. “Couldn't we, Anthony?”

“Uh,” Crowley said, watching his life flash before his eyes.

But, as it turned out, there was no way to say no to Belle Prince. Not even the notoriously antisocial Ezra Fell.

.

Belle was not quite sure what hampered Crowley from acting like a human being in front of Ezra, but it had began to be almost painful to watch. Belle had done her best to keep her nose out of it, but enough was enough: her partner needed to act on his desires and get it over with. And if he wouldn't do it for himself, she would do it for him.

Not that Crowley had ever voiced this, of course. Crowley had not said a word about his infatuation with the delicate owner of the bookstore, but he was just so obvious about it – at least to her, the one who spent the most time with him.

“What did you do that for?” he hissed at her, when Fell was quite a ways out of sight. “There is no trivia night tonight!”

“Crowley, as if I in any iteration of the universe, would ever want to go to trivia night at the pub with you and Lawrence of Arabia over there,” Belle said. “Fell doesn't know the pub schedule, I don't think he'd even go near the place if he didn't have to go past it to get to the post office.”

“Then what the Hell are you doing?”

“Getting both of you drunk and in the same building, and hoping nature finally takes its course.”

Crowley's face reddened, but impressively enough his voice didn't change. “He'll leave as soon as he figures it out.”

“No. I'll drown him in compliments and manners and intelligent conversation and he'll be forced to stay to get to know you.”

“He'll never believe that. _You're not friendly_.”

“He barely knows me,” Belle said. “How will he know any different?”

Crowley glared at her, incensed. Then he said, “I hate you,” pointing at her over the car, and then sulkily getting back in.

“Yep,” Belle said, getting in on her side.

She timed it perfectly. There was no way Crowley would risk Ezra showing up first and leaving, so he went early. Belle arrived ten minutes after she told Fell to come, just in time to stop him from politely excusing himself once Crowley made too many blunders.

“Hello, Mr Fell!” she exclaimed. Crowley was looking at her like he couldn't believe her bravado, but also seemed unsurprised to see it. “I got you a drink. The wine selection here is shit, but they stock a nice scotch for us.”

“Us?”

“Anthony's selection, actually,” Belle said, smiling.

Several rounds later, satisfied with her progress (Crowley and Ezra were having a laughing, animated chat at the table) but her face aching from smiles, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. She splashed water on her flushed face and ran her fingers through her hair. She considered her reflection in the mirror, thoughtfully.

What had her life come to, really? Years on the Force, being constantly put in danger. Having to spend most of her waking hours thinking about or spending time with the worst of humanity. It had irrevocably fucked her up, she was sure, but her doctors and therapists (and old partners and friends she no longer spoke to) had told her that she would be back to normal again, one day.

Yes, that was why she was in Tadfield, wasn't it? To get away from it. To heal. Not to continue to exist, broken, but that's what she was doing.

But the lack of serious cases, the calmness of the village itself... she no longer felt useful. She hated it.

On her way out she bumped into Scarlet, a biker who was, apparently, writing a travel memoir about the villages and surrounding areas. She was a journalist out of London, and about forty percent of the village gossip was focused on her.

Scarlet nodded authoritatively before slipping past. For a moment Belle almost tried to make conversation, and then remembered she was only pretending to be sociable tonight. (She used to be, of course. Very sociable. But that was before.)

At the table, Belle didn't need to be close enough to hear; she could just see the animated back-and-forth going on. The problem with Crowley was he had a tendency to retreat into his head and start to over think things. He had been over thinking Ezra Fell since he'd met the bookseller. When Crowley was doing his job he was great, but as soon as he tried to approach things on a more personal matter he fell apart. He'd just needed a nudge, which Belle had been more than happy to give.

If it turned out Fell didn't like her partner, well, then he was an idiot anyway. But he seemed more than engaged with Crowley, now.

She fed them some lie that her neighbour had called to say that her front door was wide open, and that she would 'be right back'. Then, comfortably deciding it was time to head home for the night, she left the pub and breathed in the fresh, autumn air.

She dug her pack of cigarettes out of her jacket and shook one out, then began to pat herself down for a lighter. Cursing, she turned to head back in, to see if she could steal Crowley's, when someone said, “Let me,” and fire flared in front of her.

“Mister Clarion,” she said, glancing up at him, before leaning in to light the end of her cigarette. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he said, smiling at her for a moment, before heading past, into the pub. She took a long drag, flipped her coat lapels up, and then began the long walk back to her street.

The next day, she found Crowley just barely upright in the kitchen area, making a fresh pot of coffee. He was hung over and trying to hide it, leaning against the counter, staring at the coffee maker doing its thing. She stood off to the side, watching him for a bit at first, trying not to burst into laughter. He took out the carafe once there was enough made for a cup, but he kept stopping, mid pour, to set the carafe down and stare at the counter.

“Long night?” she finally said.

He jumped, splashing a bit of coffee onto the counter, and cursed. “Oi!” Uriel shouted from the other side of the break room.

“Got it,” Belle said, dropping a pound in the swear jar. “Sorry,” she added, approaching Crowley, mopping up the coffee.

“You surprised me,” he said.

“Not really sharp this morning, huh?”

“Lower your voice,” he replied. “Stop shouting. Ugh.”

“I didn't think Fell was the type to stay out past nine.”

“He's not,” Crowley sighed. “But I was having a good night and then I let an American get me drunk.”

“Oh?”

“He’s here to oversee a structural change at the airbase,” Crowley said, in a way that suggested he was repeating it. Belle could smell the telltale whiff of sweat that was eighty percent alcoholic.

“The same one my neighbour keeps trying to pawn off on me?”

“Yep. Bumped into him last night after Ezra left. Kind of obnoxious, but he bought my drinks, so can’t be all that bad. He asked me about you. I think he's into it.” And Crowley used his fingertips to draw a rectangle midair, as if to frame Belle like a picture.

Belle raised her eyebrows. “You know, I get enough of this from Tracy. Focus on your own shitty love life.”

“You _need_ to orgasm,” Crowley had said. Belle kicked him in the shin. “Ow!”

“Don't sex shame me. You know I'm demi.”

“Ugh. Just trying to look after your health, is all.”

“Yeah? Then pour me one,” she said. “Milk and sugar.”

“This is workplace bullying.”

“You’re hung over and I can tell Michael,” Belle said with relish, and Crowley shot her a betrayed look.

There was the usual crash and rustle that heralded PCs Hastur and Ligur, bustling in for their own coffee, and to possibly put something in the microwave that shouldn't go there.

Hastur mumbled something. He always had something in his mouth – usually an unlit cigarette, but sometimes it was a sandwich, a handful of lollies, or even just a mug of coffee in front of his face that he didn’t bother to put down. Due to that, he was usually completely unintelligible. That morning he was eating a muffin.

“What?” Belle said.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Prince of Flies,” Ligur translated.

“Oh, piss off,” Crowley said, hackles up. Belle got another pound out for the swear jar. “That was one time.”

Belle patted his shoulder to let him know it wasn’t worth it. “C’mon,” she said.

“I mean, you fell in a skip once,” Crowley muttered, as they walked away.

“You laughed at me until you cried. You were on the ground sobbing instead of helping me. And you kept crying harder the more I tried to get out.”

“Yeah, but I’m the only one allowed to laugh about it,” Crowley said. “And I’d have helped you out if it wasn’t so funny, obviously.”

By Thursday, the graffiti situation was beginning to annoy her.

“The thing about the graffiti is that even after we scrub it off, the tagger just puts it right back in the same place,” Crowley reported.

“When did the shopkeepers scrub it off?”

“Last night. And it's there again this morning.”

That meant that either a bunch of children had gotten out of bed at two in the morning to vandalize the local shop before school, or there was something else at play. Belle and Crowley were not inclined to think any of the schoolchildren in the village were that dedicated to their anti-authoritarian craft.

“Does the tag match anything up in London? Or somewhere else?” Belle asked. “Could be an urban artist branching out.”

“None so far.”

“Well, it needs to stop,” Belle said. “Michael's a pain in the ass by herself, but what if the village council starts complaining about it? I'd rather move.”

“Same,” Crowley muttered.

“Well, at least we know it isn't a gang symbol, not from a gang that matters, anyway,” Belle sighed. “Keep combing through, we might find something. I've sent Hastur and Ligur out to go see if anyone saw or heard anything unusual last night.”

“Anything unusual besides Hastur and Ligur?”

“Don't be a child, Crowley,” Belle said, but without any bite at all.


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Have you ever fired your gun up in the air and gone 'aaargh!'?" _Hot Fuzz_

Broken glass glittered on the floor, but beyond that and the several drawers that had been rifled through, the bookshop was barely disturbed.  As far as break-ins went, it could be a lot worse, though he preferred it to have not happened at all. Ezra closed the  front  door carefully, and padded his way through the space, glancing around. His neighbour had called it in, unfortunately, so he didn't have much time to make sure everything was in order before the  cops arrived.

But while they had managed to break into the safe, his actual physical cache of information – paper files and encrypted thumb drives – had been undisturbed. No one had made it into the hidden drive in his computer, either. Good. Now he only had to contend with the police.

Well, the police and Gabriel.

It had been almost twenty years ago now since they had first encountered one another. Sometimes Ezra considered the fact that Gabriel – codenamed the Saint, for one obvious reason, and then a dozen odd others – was technically his oldest (living) friend to be downright alarming, but that was when he was being cynical. Really, at the best of times, Gabriel had never been anything but dependable and loyal. Ezra never doubted him. But he was also a complete bastard sometimes.

The arrival of Crowley and his boss had derailed him for a day, it seemed; but once the glass had been swept up and it had all returned to business as usual, Gabriel appeared on his doorstep. Ezra had had better Saturdays.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Ezra?” Gabriel asked, spreading his hands as if to gesticulate how much of the situation he found absurd – plainly speaking, all of it. “You tell me everything's fine and then the next thing we know someone is breaking in? While you're _asleep_? And the police are involved? Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, calm down, Gabe,” Ezra said with a delicate eye roll. “I assure you, they won't think this is anything but a domestic matter. There's nothing to say otherwise.”

“I'm assuming by your hand-waving that nothing sensitive was found.”

“It's all where I left it.”

“They could have taken photographs.”

“It wasn't disturbed,” Ezra said, with a note of finality.

Thankfully, Gabriel backed off a bit. “Good,” he said, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “That's the last thing we need. And there was nothing else?”

“I'm quite certain, yes.”

“Right,” Gabriel said. “You. _Fastidious_.” Ezra narrowed his eyes, but his companion continued on before he could say anything. “Those cops, I read your reports on them. They aren't going to be a problem, are they?”

“Oh, no, never,” Ezra assured him.

“The redhead likes you,” Gabriel observed. He said it with a mischievous quirk of his mouth, far too knowing for Ezra to feel comfortable with. He chose not to answer, and Gabriel didn't push it – it had, after all, been only an observation and nothing more.

When Ezra had first arrived in Tadfield, he had been looking forward to the posting. Nothing much was meant to happen there, after all – Tadfield was not a hotbed of criminal activity. But it was flagged as a likely location for intelligence leaks, and Ezra had been monitoring the situation carefully.

Now things were changing. Ezra knew for a fact his office was fending off competition with other policing rivals to get in there and bring someone in. The CIA had even insisted on being let in, and MI-5 had let them, on condition that Ezra remained in the field otherwise unaccompanied. Of course, they'd called Gabriel. That was the worst bit about having history in the intelligence community; people remembered.

It wasn't that Ezra lived a particularly dangerous lifestyle. He was a top analyst, and already had the cover of a bookshop owner in London. But you always had to be careful, in that sort of life. Of the few times Ezra had noticed enough little things to discover he was in danger, he always realised it in time to get away. Just because he didn't go out in the field too much didn't mean he was a fool.

Gabriel, on the other hand, was the kind of agent they made ridiculously over-the-top masculine movies about. He'd been shot twice in the line of duty, and had twice as many medals. Gabriel’s presence usually meant things were about to get complicated.

So when Ezra finally managed to shoo the American out and close up shop, he took a long, careful look at the street outside. He was going to have to be more cautious, now, because someone had noticed that he had been nosey. And if Gabriel pushed – which he always did – then danger was nearer than he liked. Ezra, though, would be ready for it.

.

Every now and then Gabriel would privately wonder to himself, “Is this the assignment that will kill me?” He didn't know the reasoning behind the question – was he being realistic, cynical, or optimistic? Or something else?

In any case, he figured that going out to Tadfield to meddle in the business of his old friend would not involve too many guns. Sure, there was suspicion of a massive intelligence smuggling operation about to take place, which meant that there could be a lot of dangerous people around. But Gabriel was just there to assess the situation and report back, and if it looked like things might get out of hand, the necessary backup would be called in.

Besides, it gave him an excuse to keep an eye on Ezra. His early retirement to become a bookseller obviously hadn't gone as planned. For someone as intelligent as Ezra Fell, he really did make enormously bad decisions sometimes. Usually, it was in the form of trying to help someone who he had no business in helping. His old friend had a damn bleeding heart.

But since most of Gabriel's other friends were dead, he knew it paid to keep an eye on the ones left. Due to a slew of very successful missions it wasn’t the first time he worked with Ezra directly, but if Ezra wasn’t careful, it could be the last.Though, friendship aside, that didn’t stop them from squabbling like a married couple whenever they were around each other.

On first arriving to Tadfield, it had been straightforward enough. Ezra had gotten Gabriel up to speed on the village and its happenings. Gabriel had begun to do his own research, quietly infiltrating the neighbourhood to see what he could figure out, as well as going to the military base in his guise as a visiting officer. Everything had seemed quiet and steady and then, suddenly, someone broke into the secondhand bookshop and Ezra's nosey neighbours called it in before he could cover it up.

That meant things had to be conducted in a more clandestine manner. They met the following day in secret and drove to an empty road, stopping next to – incredibly enough – a pasture full of cows. “This fucking country,” he sighed, staring out across the field, leaning back against his car.

“You have cows in America,” Ezra said, getting out of the passenger side.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like a Beatrix Potter book,” Gabriel replied. “This place is some next level cinematic bullshit.”

“Why did you make us come all the way out here?” Ezra complained. His codename, Angel, was the biggest misnomer Gabriel had ever heard. The man had a warped view of suffering. “I have a reservation for tonight in London, you know. At this point I won’t make it.”

“Well, thanks to you making people suspicious enough to break in to your store, I can’t exactly be seen there too often,” Gabriel retorted, and Ezra had the good grace to not argue that point. “Anyway, there’s been reports of racing down this road. Has Tadfield always been so active?”

“Well,” Ezra said, leaning against the car next to Gabriel. “Not exactly. Bit of a sleepy village.”

“A sleepy village with racing. Have you heard anything about it?”

“No,” Ezra said. “Just complaints about bikers and how loud those contraptions are. They’ve been coming and going from these parts for the past couple of months, but from what I’m told that’s common in the summer.”

After that it was just a case of briefing each other on their activities. Ezra had been laying low and keeping an eye out for any more disturbances, just in case he and Gabriel needed to quickly exit the village. As for Gabriel, he was furthering his investigation of the village itself. He also tried to keep an eye on the movements of the local detective inspector, who had a very impressive file. Belle Prince had been _in the shit_ , as people in their line of work liked to say. It was folly to ignore her presence. Unfortunately, she lived right beside a painted, pastel creature who talked to him like he was a delicious piece of meat.

“Can you drop me at the nearest station?” Ezra asked, as they got back into the car.

“No. Stations have cameras.”

“Gabriel, you really are awful.”

“Relax,” he said, trying not to laugh. “I’ll drop you _near_ the station. Honestly, though, you should learn to drive instead of relying on pretty boys to chauffeur you everywhere.”

.

Ezra quite liked Anthony Crowley. It hadn’t been a problem at first, because Ezra had happily written him off as the pretty-but-stupid archetype he came across so often, especially in law enforcement. And Crowley was also very good-looking to Ezra’s eyes. He didn’t dress like a detective, not quite. His clothes were always rather… tight. It was nice. More than nice. But certainly not nice enough for Ezra to consider getting involved while he was working.

Unfortunately, as the months began to pass by, he discovered that Crowley was smart, and funny, and thoughtful. He always had a smile for Ezra, whatever else might be going on. Finally he had decided to look further into the report that had been given to him when he was first stationed there (he had received dozens; it was up to him to decide who was important enough to focus on), and read about Crowley’s career. That was impressive enough, but the addition of several extracurricular activities – Crowley was constantly feeding the homeless or volunteering at the animal shelter when he was still posted in London – more or less made him impossible to ignore.

And unfortunately, the more Ezra began to pay attention, the harder he worked to pretend to not notice that the detective was interested in him. After all, it wasn’t often that Ezra’s very presence caused people to forget what they were even talking about, as had already happened to Crowley a few times.

He should have kept an eye on Belle Prince, too. Because when Ezra had greeted them outside the station on Monday, he had not expected to suddenly be going out to the pub mere hours later. What had started out as casual acquaintances – and stayed that way for quite a bit – was suddenly careening forth into friendship territory.

One would think that Ezra, who had worked on and off for the government in clandestine pursuits since he was twenty, would be able to turn down an invite to dinner at the local pub. But he had never been asked by Belle Prince. She was all smiles, all cheerful insistence. Also, Ezra had read her file and bits and pieces kept crossing his mind as they talked. _Doctors were shocked when she survived a near fatal stab wound_ , that was one of them. And it was hard to say no to someone that had broken up a human trafficking ring in Liverpool.

He’d told himself he couldn’t stay out too late, even with Prince’s not-unsubtle excusing of herself for the evening. Anything beyond that would be tempting fate, or at least himself. Besides, he didn’t want to have to deal with Gabriel, who would no doubt find the entire thing unwise. He meant to get home by nine but ended up leaving at ten, thanks to Crowley and his charming, inquisitive conversation.

In the morning he got up early, puttering about in his living space above the shop. He preferred to sleep late, but he found himself awake and energized, with a new bounce in his step after his evening chatting with Crowley. And flirting, possibly. Just a bit. (A lot.)

When he went downstairs with his tea to prepare the shop for opening, he almost sent the cup flying when he discovered Gabriel, sitting in one of the chairs, reading a book with a furrow between his brows.

“Gabe!” he shouted, teacup rattling ominously for a moment in its saucer. Oh, and he’d used the nickname, too. Damn it. He preferred when they pretended they weren’t that close. “How did you get in?”

“I broke in,” Gabriel said, raising his eyebrows. “Obviously.”

“You-”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t mess up the locks,” he said. Ezra relaxed even as Gabriel kept on speaking. “Why do you have a giant book on running a household in Victorian London?”

“Be careful with that,” Ezra warned, heading over to set his tea down on a side table. “That’s a third edition. How much of it did you read?”

Gabriel blinked. “Well,” he said. “A fair amount. It’s rather absorbing.”

“Are you going to tell me why you broke in? You could have just called.”

Gabriel didn’t answer right away, but Ezra’s sharp eyes picked out enough details for him to come to his own conclusion. Gabriel looked… rumpled. Not unusual after a long day, but for a morning? Gabriel had been out last night. And he hadn’t yet gone to bed. So, he’d been working.

“Remember how on Saturday I asked if those detectives were going to be a problem, and you said no?” Gabriel said.

Ezra bit back a sigh. “Good Lord. It was just dinner. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Gabriel snorted. “How long has he been deeply in love with you?”

Ezra scowled. “Nonsense.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Ezra was not a violent person, but sometimes he wanted to just throw something at Gabriel’s face. Actually, that book on household management ought to do the trick... “I only pretend to be an idiot, you know.”

_Yes, and you’re so very good at it_ , Ezra thought, unkindly. “He has a bit of a crush, I suppose,” he said instead, shrugging.

“A crush?” Gabriel scoffed. “I bet he has your name written all over his notebooks, like a love-struck thirteen year old.”

“He does not.”

“Yes, but you don’t know for sure,” Gabriel said, suddenly accusatory. He’d backed Ezra into a corner without him noticing. “You haven’t been doing your due diligence. You should have been through his desk already. This is exactly the reason why they called me in.”

Yes, _that_. He couldn’t avoid the truth that Gabriel had been called in because someone in upper management had decided Ezra wasn’t performing at his peak – and that was rubbing Ezra the wrong way, because it was technically true. He was failing at his assignment, and he needed the focus and energy that Gabriel always inevitably brought.

“They called you in to make sure no one shoots me,” Ezra retorted.

“Well they definitely will if _you’re_ not doing your job either!”

“I am doing my job!”

Gabriel set the book aside so he could very dramatically cover his face with both hands. “Ezra, I get it,” he said. “He’s fun and he’s smart and he’s like kryptonite to your grumpy old bookseller vibe, but you need to clear him before anything else happens. You need to get into his office, and make sure he doesn’t suspect anything, because otherwise you’re putting him in danger.”

If there was one thing Ezra hated, it was when Gabriel was right. “How do you expect me to do that?”

“Ezra, we both know I’m here as your backup, not your handler,” Gabriel replied. “Just help me out here, why don't you?”

“I'll handle it,” he promised, and the other man looked somewhat appeased. “I'll see what I can find out from Anthony.”

“Good.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“Distracting his boss,” he said, like it was obvious.

Something tickled at Ezra’s brain. “Wait,” he said. “You were out all night. You weren’t…?”

Gabriel glowered. His early attempts to mimic James Bond were no secret between them. “ _No_.”

“Then what were you doing?”

“Drinking with your future husband,” he said, acidly. When Ezra balked at him, he added, defensively, “Look, I had to do my own check in, since you’re not telling me anything.”

“You’re the worst, Gabriel.”

“Christ, change your tune,” the other man said, but he was starting to smirk. Ezra tamped down the urge to smile back, and nearly succeeded. “I told you, I get why you like him. He didn't tell me anything that interesting, though. What about you?”

“They've been having problems with graffiti.”

Gabriel laughed. “Of course,” he said, getting to his feet. “Anyway, I’ll see myself out. And stop hiding things from me.”

“You know, considering that I saved your life, you're still awful,” Ezra said.

“Yep, well, our sins follow us, don’t they?” And with that last quip, Gabriel left the bookshop.

.

Ezra was very much a ‘the lady doth protest too much’ type; get him close to the truth and he would swear up and down it wasn’t the case. He had to assume that it worked on people who weren’t Gabriel, but it just gave him a headache every time Ezra trotted it out.

That was the thing about Ezra – he was probably one of the most competent people Gabriel had ever worked with, but he had a habit of falling into a certain rhythm. It wasn’t a rare occurrence among analysts, but it made Gabriel paranoid and impatient. Of course, the paranoia was one of _Gabriel’s_ bad habits, but Ezra wasn’t making it very easy on him.

Now his friend-slash-partner had finally decided to play along, though, which was good. When Ezra finally sent him a message on Thursday telling him that he would be having dinner at the pub with Crowley, and Gabriel would need to run interference, he let out a sigh of relief. Finally.

His in-agency therapist would have warned Gabriel that he might have been pushing too hard, trying to make trouble where there was none so that he could feel useful. Unfortunately, while Gabriel was aware he _could_ be making that mistake, he had a hard time seeing the distinction in the field. That was the problem with the job: there was very little normal about it, and most therapists weren’t ex field agents. Finding normality was more difficult when you had been trained on how to kill someone with a pen and were expected to have that information handy at a moment’s notice.

Still, he was certain his badgering of Ezra to get the Crowley situation under control was the smart move. After all, the man was part of the police force, and whenever intelligence and law enforcement agencies crossed paths, the result was almost always messy. Gabriel would rather avoid that.

As for the Detective Inspector, Belle Prince was a different sort of issue entirely. She had seemed quite removed when he had met her, but in the way that people were when they were used to observing humanity rather than interacting with it. How he might catch her attention at all, let alone distract her without making her suspicious, was something he would tackle when he got there.

That night he went to the pub only to see who was present and who was not; and also, for a moment, to catch Belle Prince outside just long enough to light her cigarette again for her. He wasn't sure why; surely he didn't need to cross her path so obviously, so many times. But there was something rewarding about the careful twist of her mouth whenever he spoke.

When he got home he stayed awake, waiting until it was dark enough for his tastes. The graffiti thing was a detail, and he wasn't sure how small or big it was yet; but from what he gathered from gossip, the paint kept getting reapplied no matter how many times the hardworking citizens of Tadfield were washing it off.

He put on his jacket and headed back out around midnight. He had a feeling that he would not be the only person to go back there; surely, Prince or Crowley would have figured out that if the graffiti was replaced once, it would be replaced again. Presumably the graffiti would be applied when it was dark and, in early fall, that would take place during a certain time frame.

A suspicious event was a suspicious event, and Gabriel had to investigate it.

He approached carefully, not wanting to be noticed by anyone else who might be there. He correctly guessed where one of both of the detectives would be, and kept out of sight. Turns out it was Crowley keeping watch; not something that would ever happen in London, but down here? Any crime was worth a detective's time, apparently.

He settled in to wait, in the shadows. There wasn’t even the telltale scent of cigarette smoke, meaning that Crowley wasn’t even trying to light up in secret – impressive control for a small-town detective. Then again, good habits – like keeping a close watch – were harder to break than the urge to smoke.

It was about four o'clock when Gabriel saw movement. He kept very still, as did Crowley, as a figure all in black walked to the side of the shop. The soft hiss of spray paint more than anything revealed the presence of the tagger, which is when Crowley burst into action.

“Stop, police!” he shouted. The paint can clattered to the ground and then the two of them were off, sprinting down the street.

Quickly, Gabriel made his move, going over to the wall. The scent of fresh paint was in the air, and he considered the outline on the wall that had begun to tag shape. A sword, with flame partially applied around it. It looked familiar, but he wasn't sure how, not yet.

.

Ezra barely slept Thursday night; he was a bundle of nerves, for some reason, once he had finally called up Anthony and asked if he would be free Friday evening. He heard, in the distance, the sound of engines, presumably from the racers Gabriel had mentioned, as he thought about the redheaded detective. He didn't want to lure the other man out on false pretences, even if he was interested, technically. It just felt wrong. It puzzled Ezra; it never used to be a problem for him before.

When he finally did drift off he woke up before his alarm because someone was driving a motorcycle up and down the street; it created an ungodly roar that startled him and, he was sure, countless others awake. Just as well, because was only upright and out of bed for a few minutes before the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“There's definitely something weird going on in this town.” It was Gabriel. “You need to prepare to leave. Be ready.”

“What's going on?”

“Not sure yet. Destroy what we don’t need, grab what we do, and wait for me.”

After Gabriel had hung up, Ezra went to the fake air vent he had in his back room – not the office, never somewhere obvious like that – and pulled it out of the wall, opening it up. The file he had been building – parts of which had not yet made it onto any drives – he slipped into a laptop bag. One of the drives went in there too, the other was permanently wiped. The papers he had on various villagers, hidden inside ancient accounting folders, he began to feed into the fireplace. Hopefully, no one would notice the strange amount of smoke his chimney would be producing in the next half an hour.

He would be done with plenty of time, and besides, he doubted Gabriel meant for him to open up shop. He went downstairs and began to write a sign to place in the door (‘opening late today’, something like that) but before he could begin he heard a soft, scraping sound.

Ezra froze. He knew that noise; someone was tampering with the lock. His gaze strayed to the front door. He heard the noise again. Someone was being very careful as they tried to trip the tumblers.

The sun had already risen. Even though it was early, that meant someone was breaking in during daylight hours. Ezra set everything down and, quietly, locked his office door, before making his way upstairs, locking the door at the top. There was a back door, but he was in the middle of burning everything, and he couldn’t leave his job unfinished. Or, rather, he wouldn’t.

As much as Ezra hated to use them, he retrieved the handgun from under his mattress. Holding it loosely in one hand, he began to dump as many of his files as possible into the fireplace. He dialled Gabriel, but the man didn't pick up.

.

If it weren't for the fact that Crowley had been up all night and he instructed her to just meet him at the station, Belle would have waited for him as she usually did, having a chat with Tracy. She would not have gone by the bookshop and noticed the front door slightly open but the windows still dark.

She stopped, glanced around to see if there was anything in the area she needed to be aware of, but everything was quiet. There was a motorbike parked around the corner, though, a dark, rusted and oily-looking machine.

With her senses on high alert, she slowly eased herself inside. There was someone inside, moving around in the darkness deliberately and carefully – the movements of an intruder, not the bookstore's fussy owner. She pressed herself tightly to the side of the frame, not wanting to block any of the light coming in through the door and alert whoever it was to her presence.

The figure, thin and pale even in the darkness of the shop, headed towards the stairs in the back. Belle pulled out her gun.

“Tadfield police,” she barked. “Don't move!”

It was only instinct and experience that told her to move. The figure whipped around and she heard the soft sound of rounds being fired off through a silencer, feeling more than hearing the bullets burying themselves into plaster. Belle threw herself down and to the side, and by the time she was up and ready the figure was barrelling up the stairs.

“Stop!” she shouted – hoping, too, that her shout would rouse Ezra, who was likely still asleep. She sprinted towards the stairs – and only barely got out of the way before someone came crashing back down.

Up close, the intruder was a slender, oddly beautiful person, with white hair and dusty white leathers. A biker, she realized. Maybe the neighbourhood council had a point in wanting to get rid of them.

She pounced, but they were just as fast. She was too close to shoot but they held themselves in a knife fighter's stance, something Belle knew only too well. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck and between her shoulders, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. But instinct kicked in and, faster than she could get her gun ready, she had her free forearm up before the knife plunged right through.

She screamed, but wrenched her arm to the side, sending the knife flying. She dropped her gun and threw her free hand upright, digging her thumb right against the base of her attacker's nose, between their nostrils, where there was a small cluster of nerves.

They reared back but miraculously stayed upright, and ran just as Ezra himself came running down the stairs, eyes dark and face flustered as he took in Belle. “I didn't mean to throw them down the stairs at you!” he exclaimed.

Belle ignored him, rushing for the door where she could hear the sound of the motorcycle starting up again.

With a roar of oily smoke, the biker was gone. “Mr Fell,” she said, retreating inside. “Call the police.”

“No!” Ezra said, quickly. “We can't call this in. Not yet.”

She scowled. “And why not?”

“I... oh, dear,” Ezra said, looking incredibly worried. “I'm not supposed to say. Wait!” he added, as Belle turned towards the shop telephone. “Please don't. I, ah, I work for MI-5. Counter-terrorism. And if we call it in, someone listening in might hear. I still have a partner in the wind and he'll be in danger.”

Belle stared.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked.

He frowned at, presumably, the language. “No, I am not,” he said. “I was getting ready to leave, and then this individual came in to...”

“To murder you. Yeah, I got that,” Belle said. “Silencers are pretty definitive. Right, fine. _I_ am the cops, so I'll have to do for now. But we'd better not stay here.”

“Can we go to the station?”

“Would you prefer that?”

“Making these kinds of decisions is not my forte,” Ezra said, looking rather annoyed – not at anything in particular, she thought. More like the situation of having people trying to murder him seemed to be irritating him.

“Well, the station is too far, we are _not_ running there,” Belle said. “We'll go to my place and hunker down until Crowley can pick us up.”

“Detective?”

“What?”

“You're bleeding,” Ezra said, faintly.

Belle did not look down. She was not going to pass out. She was not going to pass out. She was _not_ going to pass out. “I know,” she said. “Let's go.”

.

Gabriel didn’t know if they were being watched or not but, in case they were, he knew he had to go about his morning as if it were business as usual. That meant, however ridiculous it was, that once he had hung up on Ezra, it was time for his morning run.

Beautiful morning, as usual. There was no need to go anywhere near Belle Prince’s street, though he did wish he could do just that for a moment. It might be too suspicious, so instead he cut around the main square, heading around in the direction closer to the apple orchards, taking the lane that ran alongside.

That was where Crowley flagged him down. The only trace of his late night pursuit were the bags under his eyes but, other than that, the man seemed alert and awake, the scent of a recent shower rolling off of him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, slamming the door jauntily behind him. “Don’t usually use the siren, here.”

It was barely eight in the morning, so most of Tadfield was still indoors, getting ready for the day. Out by the orchard, there was no one but a mailman at the end of the lane, quickly disappearing from view. Gabriel stopped to lean against the low rock wall, waiting for Crowley to approach.

“Can’t imagine you would need to,” Gabriel said. “What can I do for you, detective?”

“I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me,” Crowley said. “And come on, you know you can call me Anthony. You’ve bought me enough drinks for that.”

Gabriel smiled, tightly, well aware of the tension in the other man; though he was pretending to stand at ease, he knew Crowley was ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. That meant Gabriel had to surprise him if he had any chance in getting the drop on him.

“Not sure what kind of answers I could have for you,” Gabriel said. “But I'll do what I can to help.”

“What were you doing last night?” Straight to it, then.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. As he'd said to Ezra, he only pretended to play dumb, and he was very good at it. But Crowley wouldn't believe him no matter how impressive his bluff. “I had a drink at the pub,” he said. “I ran into your partner, Detective Prince. I believe you were there as well, weren't you?”

“After that,” Crowley said. “Where were you afterwards?”

“I went home.”

“And after?”

Gabriel tipped his head to the side. “What's this about?” he asked, suspiciously. “Is this because I spoke to her?”

“Who?”

“Detective Prince.”

“What would that have to do with anything?”

“You seem close.”

“We're _coworkers_ ,” Crowley snapped impatiently, dawning on him that Gabriel was possibly messing with him. He was sharp, Gabriel had to admit to that. “Let me put it this way. You seem to have some paint on your shoe that wasn't there before.”

Gabriel blinked, and then glanced down, turning his foot to see a soft blush of colour. Well, that's what he got for wearing his favourite pair of running shoes to a crime scene, even if the crime was graffiti. “Huh,” he said. “That's very impressive of you to notice.”

“Thank you. I've noticed a few other things as well.”

The two of them were still standing there, at ease, as if they were two friendly acquaintances having a morning chat. Gabriel kept his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. “Yeah?”

“There's a new piece of graffiti up in the village. Ezra's shop.”

Gabriel felt a sudden prickle of fear, unexpected and unsettling, because his instincts had realized the ramifications of that statement before his brain did. “What?”

Crowley nodded, looking at him suspiciously. “A set of wings,” he said. “Angel wings. And I thought, anyone around here named after an angel?”

Gabriel barked out a laugh. He did not let his nerves show; Ezra's life may depend on it. “Do you have a gun, Detective Crowley?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, well,” Gabriel said, apologetically. “I guess I'm appealing to your better nature.”

“Y-”

And Gabriel was off.

Crowley was a smart man, that was true, but perhaps a little too reliant on his own authority. Because if there was one mistake he made was that he approached Gabriel at the start of his morning run – before he was tired, and after he was fully warmed up.

Gabriel hopped over the wall by the lane and an additional two garden walls with ease, banked down a side alley, and ripped along a side lane. Behind him he heard Crowley shout and take chase, but he didn’t even bother to look back, eating up ground with the ease of someone who kept in shape because his very life could depend on it.

It was only a matter of time before he lost the other man, but Crowley would figure out where he was heading soon enough. He only had to get there before Crowley realized it would be quicker to backtrack and hop back into his cruiser, so he kept his route has varied as possible at first, trying to throw him off the scent.

He ran along some fencing along the back gardens of the smaller houses, then took a running leap at one, getting his toe in a knothole in the wood and propelling himself over. He heard Crowley shout something very unflattering at him as he cut through the back garden and out into the main street, but the detective didn’t follow him. Once Crowley backtracked, it would be him versus Gabriel’s sprinting speed.

Angel wings. Someone knew who Ezra was, at least, and soon maybe Gabriel as well. When had it been placed there? Before or after the flaming sword tag was reapplied to the grocer's? How long since the message had been sent out? The situation was now no longer tense, it was possibly dire. At best, their covers had been blown. At worst, Ezra had a hit out on him.

He turned the corner onto Ezra’s street, and what he saw confirmed his worst suspicions: The front door of the shop was hanging open on its hinges.

.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

His throat burning from having to _fucking run at eight in the morning_ but at least back in his cruiser now, Crowley tore through Tadfield’s sleepy roads, siren on to make sure everyone stayed out of his way. It might have been considered overkill, but Crowley just had a feeling speed was of the essence.

How the Hell had Gabriel outrun him that quickly? He had to admit, though, they way he’d practically flown over that fence had been pretty impressive, but Crowley was too angry to care.

However, when he arrived at the bookstore, he felt no satisfaction at seeing the broken windows, the small group of people who had stopped to stare around or in.

He slammed the brakes and parked, jumping out. “Stay back,” he demanded, pulling out his phone to call it in. He stepped into the shop, easing in carefully, and listening. His heart was hammering painfully in his chest, causing pressure to build its way up his throat.

“Ezra?” he called. “Are you here? Ezra!”

No sign of anyone. Just like the last break-in, maybe? But no, this was different, he just knew it. And where was Gabriel?

There was blood on the floor.

He got into his cruiser, heart hammering. What to do, what to – oh, fuck, of course, call Belle. He picked up his phone just as it started to ring, amazed to see the picture of Belle herself on his screen.

“Come here _now_ , Anthony,” Belle said, and the use of his first name caused Crowley's blood to run cold. “My place. I have Ezra Fell. Don't call backup.”

“What's going on?”

“People are trying to kill him, and I don’t have a car,” she said. “But you do. Get the Hell over here.”

“On it.” Crowley tossed his phone down into the cup holder and put the keys in the ignition, but then the passenger door swung open and in climbed Gabriel himself, as if he hadn’t just sent Crowley on an insane chase across the village.

He didn’t look like he’d even broken a sweat, Crowley thought. He would have allowed himself to be offended, had he not been distracted by the fact the other man was holding a semiautomatic pistol on him.

“You should lock your doors,” Gabriel said, swinging said door shut. “Anyone could just get in. Hands on the wheel.”

Crowley froze, except for his hands, which he immediately placed on the steering wheel. For a moment they just sat there, waiting for each other to make a move. Crowley had had a firearm pointed at him multiple times during his career, but there was a difference between a possible gunfight and being shot at point blank range in your own vehicle. In the latter case, it was nearly impossible to miss, and death came quicker and with far more finality.

“Is this because I chased you?” he asked, after a moment. He could stall Gabriel, maybe; but Hastur and Ligur were on call, and he didn't think he could stall Gabriel _that_ long. “Because you ran first.”

“I expected you to run after me.”

“But I had a gun,” Crowley said. And he stayed very still as Gabriel leaned forward and removed that gun from his holster and placed it on the floor of the car. Crowley mentally cursed himself. Great; now he was unarmed as well as held hostage in his own damn cruiser. “I could have shot you,” he pointed out.

“You didn't strike me as a man who would shoot another man in the back,” Gabriel said. “I chanced it.”

Crowley sighed. “I could be a bastard,” he said. “If I wanted to.”

“Sure,” Gabriel said, supportively. “Now. I need you to drive me to wherever you think Ezra is.”

Crowley blinked, but he had not misheard, even though he wished he had. “No,” he said.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Yes,” Crowley said. “But I'm not driving you to him.”

The other man just stared at him, as if Crowley had suddenly begun to speak in tongues. “You're not?” he said, confused.

“No.”

“Even though I could blast your face apart.”

“'Fraid not.”

Gabriel continued to stare at him, his eyes unnervingly focused. Then he nodded and flicked on his gun's safety. “This usually works,” he said. “New tactic.”

“You can't just say 'new tactic'.”

“Just did,” Gabriel replied. “Please take me to Ezra. I think he's in danger.”

The gun was out of his face, but he still didn't have his own weapon, and they were in his car, and this was a really terrible situation to be in. Crowley's brain immediately kicked into autopilot. “You ran from me,” he said. “Why?”

“I couldn’t let you arrest me,” he said. “That would be inconvenient. Come on, let’s go.”

“Are you a terrorist? A weird, jogging American terrorist?”

“No.”

“Wait,” Crowley said. “Are you a spy?”

Gabriel did not answer, and Crowley twisted around to face him better, and gaped at him. “Holy shit.” He said. “You're a spy. You're absolutely a spy!”

“That's not-”

“Well why else wouldn't you tell me who you work for?” Crowley challenged. Gabriel stared at him.

“ _Christ_ ,” he said. “Fine. I'm a spy. Will you please start the car?”

Crowley did. “ _So_ cool,” he said. “Wait. Is Ezra a spy too?”

Gabriel sighed.

.

At home, Belle tore up a sheet and tightly wrapped it around her arm, applying as much pressure to it as she could to stop the bleeding. The last thing she wanted to do was go into shock.

“He's on his way,” she assured Ezra.

“Are you sure you'll be alright, detective?” he asked, concerned.

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Do you smoke?”

“I quit four years ago,” he said.

Five minutes later they were both in the front sitting room, smoking. Desperate times, desperate measures; she didn't even bother to open the window. Her house could smell like cigarette smoke for the time being. “Your partner,” she said. “Who is it?”

Ezra looked like he wasn't going to say anything, but she watched the mental gymnastics that led to him realizing there was no point in hiding any further. “His name is Gabriel,” he said. “I think you've met him already.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt strangely disappointed. “I suppose that's why he's been so charming to me.”

Ezra gave her a surprised look. “Has he?” he asked.

They heard the growl of a motorbike and froze.

“There she is,” Belle muttered, peering out through her curtains. She was not surprised to see the red bike parked at the end of the street, with the beautiful Scarlet dismounting from it. Her bright red leathers gleamed in the morning sunlight. Like the person at the bookshop, she was armed.

“This shit is all connected,” she muttered to herself. Hopefully she would live long enough to find out how.

It could be chance that Scarlet had turned down their street, but she doubted it. Scarlet's partner – the killer at the bookshop was clearly an associate – could easily have told her that a police officer had interrupted their attempted murder of Ezra. Still, maybe it was... nope. No. Scarlet had stopped in front of Belle's house.

“Right,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Ezra. “So she definitely knows you're here. Can you cover the back door?”

“I think we have a different problem,” Ezra said, nodding. Belle swivelled around to look back at the street.

It was Shadwell. Belle's grizzled neighbour, rarely seen except when Madame Tracy twisted her arm hard enough to get her to attend Sunday lunch, was exiting the front door of his house with a shotgun.

“Shit,” Belle said, at the same time Shadwell roared, “Who the Hell d'ye think you are?!”

She shoved aside the dresser she and Ezra had painstakingly shifted into place earlier, and flung open her door to rush down the steps. “Get back inside,” she ordered.

Scarlet turned to look at her, and Belle froze. She had cold, amused eyes, and Belle knew without a doubt what was going to happen next. Scarlet looked away and moved towards Shadwell. She would shoot him dead before he even had a chance, Belle realized, raising her gun up even though she knew she wouldn't be able to pull the trigger in time.

Scarlet noticed too late the cruiser that ripped at a breakneck speed towards her. She went over the hood and hit the ground in a limp roll, gun flying from her hand and landing a few feet away. Belle sprinted forward into the road, seizing it before it could be used by anyone else.

Unfortunately, Shadwell was still marching ahead. “Gun down, Mr Shadwell!” she snapped.

“That's Sergeant Shadwell to you, lassie!”

“That's Detective Inspector Prince, you crusty idiot,” Belle said. “And if you utter the word 'lassie' in my hearing ever again I will arrest you.”

The doors to the cruiser opened and Crowley spilled out of the driver's side. “I have _always_ wanted to do that,” he said, perhaps unwisely and with a bit too much excitement in his voice. Scarlet could have been an innocent bystander, after all… but even as Belle though that the woman was, miraculously, dragging herself to her feet, switchblade in hand.

“Nope,” Gabriel said, slamming the passenger door closed and lifting his gun up at Scarlet. He had great form, Belle noted absently in the back of her mind. “Stay right there, please.”

Then Ezra was there, gaping at Gabriel. “Did you go jogging with a gun but _without_ a phone?” he sputtered.

Belle scrubbed a hand over her face. “Right,” she said. “I'm calling the cops now, and no one argue.”


	3. part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What's the matter, Danny? Never taken a shortcut before?" _Hot Fuzz_

The file hit her desk with a thud, so sharp and so sudden – and right in front of her bleary field of vision – that she jumped.

“Heyoh, sir!” Crowley exclaimed, practically leaping into his chair. “Thank god it's Friday, right?”

“Die,” she said, with feeling, and closed her eyes against his good cheer. “I thought you were going to stay overnight in London after dropping Fell off at his office.”

“Nah. Decided to come back, make sure my CO was okay.” He leaned back, propping one shiny black shoe against the edge of the desk. “You had a pretty late one last night too, eh?”

“Stop. _Die_ ,” she repeated.

“Ay, I'm just saying,” Crowley said, grinning. “Good for you, and all. What's that meme the kids pass around? 'God I wish that were me'? Just less pervy.”

“Right,” Belle said. Crowley was not going to die, no matter how much she tried to will him to burst into flames. “Hey. Give me your coffee.”

“I've already drunk from it,” he said, but passed it over anyway, watching her take a deep drink.

She settled back in her chair, nursing the coffee, no intention in giving it back. She needed it more than he did.

“How's the arm?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. She'd gotten it stitched up, and sometime between the shock, the anaesthesia, and Hastur and Ligur stomping through her home, they'd booked Scarlet at the station and taken Ezra and Gabriel under temporary police custody.

It had been an unusual time where Belle had been grateful for Michael's intensity and strict work ethic, as the sergeant had taken over the situation without a hitch. The proper agencies were called. Belle's injuries were tended to further. The bookshop had been cordoned off and PCs posted on duty. Michael had interviewed both Ezra and Gabriel, who were then released.

As for the rest of it, though, they were still piecing everything together. What they _did_ know was that the tags had been used to identify potential drops sites for data smuggled out of the airbase. The culprits were a new gang of terrorists composed primarily of bikers constantly on the move, though they had a hard time getting anything definitive out of Scarlet. Their ringleader was still in the wind.

If it weren't for the fact that Michael was completely impossible to talk to now that it appeared the graffiti she'd been harping on about had actually been part of a terrorism plot, Belle would have acted more grateful or even looked into it further. As it was, she just wanted to throw things at Michael whenever the sergeant opened her mouth, since she kept bringing up the topic of how she 'saved England'.

“Should you even be in today, sir?” Crowley asked, with just the faintest touch of concern at the corner of his eyes. “You had a rough day, yesterday.”

Belle stomped down a smile. “You sprinted after perps twice in a twenty-four hour period,” she said. “Maybe you should be the one to stay at home. That's a lot of cardio.”

“Nah, I've got painkillers,” Crowley said. “For you and for me. I plan to share.”

“Lovely.”

“So are you gonna tell me what kept you up so late?” he asked.

Belle hadn't intended to, actually. Gabriel had slept on her couch, but only after they'd talked well past midnight. He was an interesting person; he'd travelled the world, he'd gone undercover in some of the most glamourous cities on the planet – Singapore, Dubai, Barcelona. But the eager and admiring way he spoke to her, like he was impressed just by her very presence, was a strange, new thing for her. The men and women she was interested in and ultimately dated had always irrevocably seen her as damaged goods. She didn't know if Gabriel would turn out the same way, but she was drawn to the idea that maybe he would be different.

“We just talked,” she said. She could tell Crowley, surely. “He slept on the couch. Stop being weird about it.”

“I will _never_ stop being weird about it,” Crowley stated. “Did he give you that stupid excuse where he didn't want you to be in your house all alone and that he could keep watch?”

Belle glowered. He laughed.

“Classic,” he said with a wide grin on his face. “Where is he now?”

“He left this morning to meet with his handler. He's thinking about not taking another assignment for awhile.” Crowley looked like he was about to start another line of questioning, so she distracted him quickly. “What about you? Still going on that date tonight?”

“Nah,” he said, but he still looked cheerful, which was soon explained. “We changed it to Saturday and we picked a restaurant in Soho. We're going to do it properly. Three course meal, lots of wine, probably candles. Awkward goodbyes. The whole deal.”

“So he's still interested. He wasn't just trying to spy on you.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Nah, not really,” Belle said. “You're the good sort, Anthony.”

He looked almost taken aback, and his smile changed, subtly, from cheerful to sort of awkward. “Thanks, sir,” he said. “You are too.”

Belle looked at the file he had thrown down on her desk. She had come to Tadfield to work, yes, but also to rest. Her arm was beginning to throb as her painkillers wore off. She sipped at her stolen coffee, and made no move to look inside the folder. Maybe she should take a break from work; maybe she could call Gabriel, too. Belle Prince considered the _maybes_ in her life and, for the first time in a long time, thought they sounded promising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
